


Say Something

by anderscones



Series: Remembering Sunday [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:17:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anderscones/pseuds/anderscones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[SPOILERS FOR HIS LAST VOW]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say Something

“Since this is the last conversation I am likely to have with John Watson, would you mind if we took a moment?” The words burned Sherlock’s throat like acid. _Last conversation._

 

“So here we are.” John muttered, a small smile gracing his face. It was one that he put on when he was trying his hardest to keep himself from releasing a dam of any certain emotion. Sherlock attentively stared at the man in front of him, memorizing that look. _Have to remember everything I can._

 

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes.” he prodded back.

 

“Sorry?”

 

“That’s the whole of it, if you’re looking for baby names.” _Laugh. Throaty for John. Tangible version of freshly sawed wood. Sawed, not chopped. Did he say girl? Oh._ “Okay.” _A girl. A little girl. I bet she will be beautiful, not that I will ever know. Maybe I’d be able to have Mycroft send me a picture once she’s born. Maybe not. Best not. But a girl? How wonderful…_ The smile he wore was wiped quickly from his mouth as he tried to not think about never meeting her. John started talking, but Sherlock lost his focus again as he took in the whole of the doctor. _Limp is bad today. Cleared his throat, looked over his shoulder. Nervous. Upset. Probably with me._ He shook his head and caught the end of what John was saying. “No, neither can I.”

 

“The game is over.” John whispered at him.

 

 _Don’t say that. dontsaythatdontsaythatdontsaythatdontsaythatdontsaythatdontsaythat_ “The game is never over, John,” _Don’t say that. It means you’ve given up on me._ “But there may be new players, now.” Tears stung his eyes yet again, and Sherlock had to turn away. “It’s okay. The East Wind takes us all in the end.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“It’s a story my brother told me when we were kids,” Sherlock lowered his voice, in fear of it wobbling. “The East Wind, this terrifying force that lays waste to everything in its path. Seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the earth.” _I asked you not to be angry with me, but maybe this will be easier if you are, John. Please make the connection. Please understand that I am the unworthy._ “That was generally me.” _Mycroft would tell me that I was the East Wind, but I want you to think that I am the unworthy._ “He was a rubbish big brother.” Sherlock smiled, as did John who added another cough.

 

He was almost inaudible. “So what about you, then? Where are you actually going now?”

 

 _Lie. Lie to him. Pretend that this isn’t the end. Tell him where you’re going but leave out the inevitable death._ “Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe.”

 

“For how long?” Sherlock’s heart twisted at the question. _Forever, I suppose? Lie. Lie to him. Pretend that this isn’t the end._ “Six months, or so my brother estimates. He’s never wrong.” John wasn’t buying it, but he would never say that. Sherlock was lying for a reason, and he wasn’t going to question it, not this late in the game that supposedly never ended. An uncomfortable feeling bloomed in his chest. The thought of not seeing his best friend was a heartbreak that both John and Sherlock felt in the little space between their lungs and diaphragm.

 

“And then what?” Sherlock still hadn’t made much eye contact with John, knowing that he would be likely to lose his conviction.

 

“Who knows.” The detective shrugged. _I know. I absolutely know._ John sucked in a deep breath, trying to keep himself under control. _I have to tell him. He has to know. I can’t just pop off to my death and not tell him._ “John, there’s… something I should say, I meant to say always, and I never have.” _He’s expecting something good, and that look in his eyes. Oh hell._ “Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.” _Oh no. I can’t actually do this. Thought I could. Can’t. Lie. Lie to him. Pretend that this isn’t the end._ “Sherlock is actually a girl’s name. _(I love you.)_ ” _Good. I made him laugh. I have to remember that reaction as well. This is all I’ve been doing since I’ve come back- laugh, make a joke instead of engaging in serious or deep feelings. I’ve learned from the best, after all… Oh, he’s smiling, smiling very hard indeed. I’ll miss that. I’m happy but I’m not. I want you to know, but I don’t think I could stand my last months here if I left you on this runway with a disgusted look on your face. I’m happy that I’m leaving you smiling and laughing and not angry and revolted._

 

“It’s not.” John breathed out, not trusting himself to say much else.

 

Sherlock smiled, feeling utterly besotted, feeling his heart fall into his stomach.“It was worth a try.”

 

John let his smile become a grin. “We’re not naming our daughter after you.” _I hope not. I don’t want her to be at all defective._

 

Regardless, he kept the joke running in a quiet murmur, his smile making his heart beat funny. It slid off of his face. “I think it could work.” Sherlock paused and extended his hand with regret and remorse. _Pretend that this isn’t the end. A hug would be too final, would feel too much like he was actually saying goodbye to me. Handshake. Handshake is good._ “To the very best of times, John.” The doctor understood completely, even without the confirmation put into words. He knew that this was very likely the last time that he was going to see Sherlock Holmes alive, and he hardly wanted to say farewell either. Even still, he considered grabbing the man by the back of his neck and pulling him into a tight hug, but neither of them were ever quite good with any sort of emotions, especially the deep ones that ran under them in that moment. John gave a quick nod.

 

 _Say something._ Say something _!_

 

John’s throat closed up as he watched Sherlock Holmes walk away for what was to be the last time. Sherlock refused to look back in fear of letting anyone see the redness around his eyes. There was also no way he could guarantee that he wouldn’t run back to John and say what he meant to in the first place. He took his seat and let the jet rumble to life as he listened to the pilot check over the systems with a roadie on the outside via radio.

 

 _I don’t want to leave. I want to stay- hell, do I want to stay. I can’t. I killed a man for John and Mary Watson. No regrets there, especially since the dead man is the most disgusting creature I have ever encountered. This goodbye was much harder than the last. It was face to face, and I don’t have the reassurance that I can come back to a normal life with a blogging doctor and bad coffee at the Yard this time. There’s no return trip this time. I’m going and never coming back, never going anywhere else. It’s: work the job, finish the job, die on the job. Just like that man who died getting me my information on the rats. There’s not much that I’m leaving behind. The work could live without me- crimes would still be solved. Mother might be upset. Mrs. Hudson. But John Watson? Oh, I’m crying now. He’s given up on me. He followed me everywhere, and he’s given up. It’s worse because he’s the one that I love, and_ I’m _saying goodbye. The farewell is for his benefit, anyway. I was never any good for him, all I did was frustrate the poor man. He’s much better off with just Mary and their daughter. He can carry on a much more domestic life thanks to me. At least this last important decision I have made is the one thing I have done right in regards to John Watson._


End file.
